Memories
by superwholock187
Summary: The Dark Lord remembers his time in the orphanage, and pays a visit.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All rights to the Harry Potter franchise belong to their respective owners. I do not post this to make a profit, but for personal pleasure and for the personal enjoyment of potential readers.

A/N: Hello. Please read and review. Helpful Criticisms are welcomed and appreciated; unbenefitial, scathing remarks, or "Flames" are not. If you enjoy the story, Favorite it, and Follow me for more. With that said, lol, enjoy!

That place. That abominable place. That dark, dank, depressing place. That rotten wooded, lonely place, on the corner of Allmore Lane. He hated when he thought of that place, of the time he spent in that place - during the younger years of his life. The weaker years of his life. He hated remembering anything about that place; the sights, the smells, the sounds.But he did. Oh, yes, he did. The sorrowful cries of loneliness - sometimes his, sometimes the other's, but mostly his- still rung fresh, sharp, and painful in his ears.

He clenched his teeth whenever he heard a window rattled by the wind. Because it would take him back to that place. To the days when a howling gale would flow through the hollow halls of that structural monstrosity, and how if any door were open when that demon breeze arrived, the entire place would scream. It would scream like a thousand souls trapped unrighteously in hell. It would cry out continuously until all within the house where crying with it; as if it too were suffering, and wanted their sympathy.

He remembered the ghastly creaks of the rickety, uneven floors. So broken and splintered they looked and acted like shark teeth -ripping and tearing into his young bare feet, hungry and eager for blood. He never did manage to rid his nostrils of the smells that constantly permeated that place; mothballs and the decaying flesh of mice. That repugnant odor clung to the clothing he was forced to wear, as well as his skin. No matter how much he bathed in the biting cold water that place's shower produced, he never could rid himself of those sickening scents.

He had never forgotten the night's at that place. The nights when he would curl in his bed - not a single limb escaping the cocoon of his paper-thin blanket- to prevent peach furred spider legs from tickling his skin. That place. That horrid place. That dusty, disgusting, decrepit place. That dreary, wretched, and foul place, on the corner of Allmore Lane.

Where some meals were burnt, others raw, but all- if eaten- would result in an irate stomach. A raging stomach, an enraged stomach, a fuming, seething, vexed stomach. One that rolled and twisted, grumbling and mumbling its displeasure for all to hear, and for him to feel. He remembered the fear that gripped and grabbed him when he saw a shadow lurking at the end of a hall. He'd run into his tiny room -scraping and scaring his feet as he went - and nestle against one of the walls. He'd wrap his arms around his knees and whisper heartfelt prayers and pleas that one day he'd escape that place.

And he did escaped that place, later than he would have liked, much later, but he did. That place. That vile place. That dreadful, deleterious, disgraceful place. That run down, atrocious place, on the corner of Allmore Lane. Oh, how he hated that place. Hated his memories of that place. The memories of him in that place -during his younger years. During his _weaker_ years. Hated to think of that place. Hated to dream of that place. Hated to remember that place. The place that deserved no other name than hell. Yes, Hell was a perfect name. A faultless, flawless, ideal name, for such a loathsome, retched place. But what is Hell without its flame?

" _Incendio_."

Once Tom Riddle, now the Dark Lord Voldemort, watched in satisfaction as Wool's Orphanage went up in flames. He smiled in sadistic delight when he heard the first scream. He stood in the distance, relishing the sight of his childhood Azkaban burning to a crisp. The Dark Lord listened to the screams of the warden and her wards as they were awoken by fire licking at their bodies. When the sound of insistent, blaring sirens, and the sight of flashing lights reached him, he apparated back to Riddle Manor.

Come the next morning, Voldemort did not regret what he had done; not in the slightest. He was proud.So proud, that he bought a muggle newspaper detailing the events, and ate it with his breakfast - reading all about what he had done. After breakfast, he cast a preservation charm on the cheap and mundane paper, and put it within his robes. The Dark Lord carried it with him all day, smiling whenever he thought of the pages in his pocket, consequently frightening his surrounding death eaters.

Later that night, he framed the paper and placed it on his nightstand; it was the only non-moving picture in his room. It would be the first thing he saw when he went to sleep and the first thing he would see when he awoke. No, he did not regret what he had done, not in the slightest. After all, muggles deserved to burn in hell.


End file.
